Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?
Now good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both!
I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
An honorable murderer, if you will, For naught I did in hate, but all in honor.
To England will I steal, and there I'll steal.
If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wished for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite In the church-way paths to glide.
O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
Take the instant way, For honor travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path, For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue. If you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost.
What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights, Eightscore-eight hours, and lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times! O weary reckoning!