But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else.
Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.