...an old man is twice a child.

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me

Come give us a taste of your quality.