Gold--what can it not do, and undo?

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate; and bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate conformable as other household Kates.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.