Hang him, swaggering rascal!
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
Oh what fools we mortals are.
I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.