He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

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!

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.