You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; not the soldier's which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.

Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.