And a man's life's no more than to say "One."
Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.