Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Avaunt, you cullions!
We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing.