Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

What is more miserable than discontent?

And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.

Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.