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."
I have
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.
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