It better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any.
What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?
Ho! Now you strike like the blindman! 'Twas the boy that stole your meat and you'll beat the post.
Counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
It is past the infinite of thought.
He hath ta'en the infection; hold it up!
God help me, how long have you professed apprehension?
An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind.
Out on thee, seeming!
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, myself would, on the rearward of reproaches strike at thy life.
It so falls out that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, why then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours.
You have stayed me in a happy hour.
We are high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?
I was not born under a rhyming planet nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's than this for whom we rendered up this woe.
Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.
And look, the gentle day, before the wheels of Phoebus, round about dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray.