The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.
Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.