The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?