Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
He that dies this year is quit for the next.
Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing.
As merry as the day is long.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.