He wears the rose
Of youth upon him.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal.
O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield?
I am declined
Into the vale of years.
The worst is not
So long as we can say, "This is the worst."
Immortal longings in me.
Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp'd of justice.
Every way makes my gain.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man's face, 1 or a weathercock on a steeple.
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires.
Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.
A morsel for a monarch.