Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

Like madness, is the glory of this life.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently