There's nothing that allays an angry mind So soon as a sweet beauty.

Oh, love will make a dog howl in rhyme.

Bad's the best of us.

Kiss till the cow comes home.

Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under Fortune's false lottery, desperately run To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout, That, bearing all mischance, dares last it out.

Envy, like the worm, never runs but to the fairest fruit; like a cunning bloodhound, it singles out the fattest deer in the flock.

My virginity, that from my childhood kept me company, is heavier than I can endure to bear. Forgive me, Cupid, for thou art god, and I a wretched creature: I have sinn'd; but be thou merciful, and grant that yet I may enjoy what thou wilt have me love!