I Am to Thank You, My Lord.

You see, my lord, how ample ho e lo the masks of amazons with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing hoyde. What a sweep of vanity comes this way they dance. They are madwomen. Like madness is the glory of this life, as this pomp shows, to a little oil in bute. 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. Who lives that's not depraved or depraved who die s that bears not one spurn to their glaze of their friend's gift? I should fear those that dance before me now would