The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.
Hang those that talk of fear.