The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.
He holds your temper in a high respect, And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you do cross his humour; faith, he does: I warrant you, that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done, Without the taste of danger and reproof: But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.
So please your Majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal: Yet such extenuation let me beg, As, in reproof of many tales devised By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,— Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,— I may, for some things true, wherein my youth Hath faulty wander’d and irregular, Find pardon on my true submission.
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She’s the kind of boss who reproves in private and praises in public.
I don’t want to spoil her, but I don’t have the heart to reprove her.