They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.
The Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.