The world's a forest, in which all lose their way; though by a different path each goes astray.
Good wits will jump.
What the devil does the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?
Men's fame is like their hair, which grows after they are dead, and with just as little use to them.
Make my breast transparent as pure crystal, that the world, jealous of me, may see the foulest thought my heart does hold.
And as they pass, turn back and laugh at me.
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