My wits begin to turn.
Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility: therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.