Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
How use doth breed a habit in a man.
Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent.
Is she kind as she is fair?
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.