What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
He that dies this year is quit for the next.
Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.
All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.