With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

At Christmas I no more desire a rose - Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows

It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.

Where is our usual manager of mirth?What revels are in hand? Is there no play,To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Old fools are babes again.

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!