I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
Full of wise saws and modern instances.
Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.
When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.