And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

O sir, you are old; nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine; you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

Love is merely a madness.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.