No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury; Signifying Nothing.

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

Friendship's Full Of Dregs.

I Profess Not Talking: Only This, Let Each Man Do His Best.