There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.
Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
The rest, is silence.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.