Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.

Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

If fortune torments me, hope contents me.

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!