So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.

If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

This is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security.

Society is no comfort, to one not sociable.