Fill all thy bones with aches.
A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.
And too soon Marred are those so early Made.
Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
For you and I are past our dancing days.