They that touch pitch will be defiled.
God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
Why, anything; An honourable murderer, if you will; For naught did I in hate, but all in honour.
It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
There's nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.