Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
He was not so much brain as earwax
He receives comfort like cold porridge.
For who so firm that cannot be seduced?
On Rumor's tongue continual slanders ride.
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.