The past is prologue.
He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.
And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.
Omittance is no quittance.