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

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Women may fail when there is no strength in man

If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.

Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that.