Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
All surfeit is the father of much fast.
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you
What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.