All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.