Things that are not at all, are never lost.
Our swords shall play the orators for us.
Above our life we love a steadfast friend.
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.