If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.

How low am I, thou painted maypole?

It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.