I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Make the upcoming hour overflow with joy, and let pleasure drown the brim.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.