Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
To saucy doubts and fears.
We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.