Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear
My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
He makes a July's day short as December.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.