How low am I, thou painted maypole?
Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?
Farewell, fair cruelty.
So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.