Vaulting Ambition, Which O'erleaps Itself

Sleep, That Sometimes Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye.

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

Happy Are They That Hear Their Detractions, And Can Put Them To Mending.

Slander, Whose Whisper Over The World's Diameter, As Level As The Cannon To Its Blank, Transports Its Poisoned Shot.

You Are Not Worth Another Word, Else I'd Call You Knave.