Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.

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

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.