Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

And send him many years of sunshine days!

Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.

I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Pardon's the word to all.