They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.
But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.