There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

For you and I are past our dancing days.

If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.