A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.

O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

The venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.