The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
Pleasure never comes sincere to man; but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
Beware the fury of a patient man.
Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.