How poor are they that have have not patients.

Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.

Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.

If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage.

Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.