O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
Hang him, swaggering rascal!
Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.