O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
We see which way the stream of time doth run.
Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.