Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

If music be the food of love, play on.

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.