O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.

How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

They Have Been Grand-jurymen Since Before Noah Was A Sailor

There's No Trust, No Faith, No Honesty In Men; All Perjured, All Forsworn, All Naught, All Dissemblers.

I Have Touch'd The Highest Point Of All My Greatness, And From That Full Meridian Of My Glory I Haste Now To My Setting.