A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Who is so firm that can't be seduced?

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

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.