Put money in thy purse.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me