Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo

Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?