The present eye praises the present object.

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

Let the end try the man.

Thou unfit for any place but hell.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!