When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.
There's beggary in love that can be reckoned