Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud.
All men make faults.
My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows, I am roughand lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.