O my offence is rank it smells to heaven It hath the primal eldest curse upon t A brothers murder.

If you love her, you cannot see her.

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

Good signiors, both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange: Must it be so? Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

The game is up.