Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves.
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next