080 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine
[082] Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
[084] Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
085 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio—,
[087] I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
[089] Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;