Good madonna, give me leave toprove you a fool.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.
Alas, my lord, your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in. You rub the soreWhen you should bring the plaster.
A politician . . . One that would circumvent God.
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