Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.
What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd.
We all remember the fool who, almost alone, was true to Lear, but, then, of course, he was a fool.
O hateful error, melancholy's child. Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O error soon22 conceived, 70 Thou never comest unto a happy birth, But kill'st the mother that engendered23 thee.