Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
A fusty nut with no kernel.
Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offense by weight The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will, On whom it will not, so: yet still 'tis just.
That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Pray you now, forget and forgive.