Avaunt, You Cullions!

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

'tis Not To Make Me Jealous To Say My Wife Is Fair, Feeds Well, Loves Company, Is Free Of Speech, Sings, Plays, And Dances Well; Where Virtue Is, These Are More Virtuous.

Rumour Doth Double, Like The Voice And Echo, The Numbers Of The Feared.