Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Do not banish reason for inequality; but let your reason serve to make the truth appear where it seems hid, and hide the false seems true.
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
How now, wit! Whither wander you?
There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end