At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property ordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings.
Shall I never see a bachelor of three score again?
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.