Live how we can, yet die we must.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.

Who can control his fate?