This is the very ecstasy of love.
Past all shame, so past all truth.
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
It is the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit.