All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.
All things do help the unhappy man to fall.
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.
I am Duchess of Malfi still.
Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.
Imyself haveheard averygood jest, and havescornedto seem to have so sillya wit as to understand it.