All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make himBy inch-meal a disease!

Ay, every inch a king

I'll not budge an inch.

I grow, I prosper;Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs.

O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!