On pain of death, no person be so bold.

Allow not nature more than nature needs.

Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.