And dies, a forfeit to’t; the tonsur’d saint,
Who vows to heaven that which ’longs to men.
O, I could moralize upon this theme
An hour by the clock, with still grave matter left
For melancholy contemplation.
[Exit Jaques.
Miranda. Yon sober suited wight, meseems, doth make
A play of sadness.
Ferdinand.So, in sooth, he doth.
His wisdom rings but hollowly, and all