Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.

“Nay, could their numbers countervail the stars,Or ever-drizzling drops of April…”

“I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits,Musitians, that with touching of a stri…”

“If I be cruel and grow tyrannous,Now let them thank themselves, and rue too lat…”

“I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.”