O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

O, reason not the need!

Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.