More can I bear than you dare execute.
I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
The world must be peopled!