For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.
Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.