Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

For grief is crowned with consolation.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.

I'll have no husband, if you be not he.

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame