So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

Misery makes sport to mock itself.

For this relief, much thanks

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.