Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.
Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure; let us be jocund
Lend less than you owe.
Nor age so eat up my invention.
That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?