No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
Drink today, and drown all sorrow; You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow; Best, while you have it, use your breath; There is no drinking after death.
True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.
The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray; And so do I.
Out of clothes out of countenance, out of countenance out of wit.
I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.