Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.