Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die.