And let my visage rather heat with wine
That my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man whose blood is warm within
Sit like his grandsire, cut in alabaster
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice, by growing peevish!
“I tell thee what, ‘O’Leary!’
There are a class of men
Whose very visages do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
On purpose to be dressed in an opinion