The rest, is silence.

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.