Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
Light and lust are deadly enemies.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Farewell, fair cruelty.