I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.