O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
You know who you are, but know not who you could be.
Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.