O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
O madam, my old heart is cracked, it's cracked!
The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.