None can cure their harms by wailing them.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?