Give me to drink mandragora.
To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.
We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.
I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.