When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

Strong reasons make strong actions let us go If you say ay, the king will not say no.

Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.

Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.