Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.
Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.