Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
Nor age so eat up my invention.
Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.