O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.
I am falser than vows made in wine.
Tempt not a desperate man