Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.

They that touch pitch will be defiled.

I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.

Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.