is his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs roe of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster, which doth make
The meat it feeds on.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy sirups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst yesterday.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen,
Let him not know it, and he's not robbed at all.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

O, now, forever,
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,

* * * * *

Othello's occupation's gone!

Act iii. Sc. 3.

Give me the ocular proof.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

But this denoted a foregone conclusion.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

They laugh that win.

Act iv. Sc. 2.

Steeped me in poverty to the very lips.

Act iv. Sc. 2.

But, alas! to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow, unmovin finger at.

Act iv. Sc. 2.

And put in every honest hand a whip,
To lash the rascal naked through the world.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

'Tis neither here nor there.

Act v. Sc. 1.

He hath a daily beauty in his life.

Act v. Sc. 2.

I have done the state some service, and they know it.

Act v. Sc. 2.

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice.
Then must you speak.

* * * * *

Of one that loved not wisely, but too well.

* * * * *

Of one, whose hand,
Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away,
Richer than all his tribe.

* * * * *

Albeit unused to the melting mood.

* * * * *

THOMAS TUSSER.
1523-1580.

_Moral Reflections on the Wind_.

Except wind stands as never it stood,
It is an ill wind turns none to good.

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.
1554-1624.

_Mustapha_. Act v. Sc. 4.

O wearisome condition of humanity!

* * * * *

Sonnet LVI.

And out of minde as soon