Friendship is full of dregs.

What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!

It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.