My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!
When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.
They are but beggars that can count their worth.
As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.