I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.