Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
With this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.