Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

I am Duchess of Malfi still.

I myself have loved a lady and pursued her with a great deal of under-age protestation, whom some three or four gallants that have enjoyed would with all their hearts have been glad to have been rid of. 'Tis just like a summer birdcage in a garden: the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out.

Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.

The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.

See, the curse of children! In life they keep us frequently in tears, And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.

All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.