Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.