The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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!
Nor age so eat up my invention.
I am sure care's an enemy to life.
I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come" (Phebe)
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere