O! How vain and vile a passion is this fear! What base uncomely things it makes men do.
The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray; And so do I.
If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
That old bald cheater, Time.
I do honor the very flea of his dog.