Friendship's full of dregs.
Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?
What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?