My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.

In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow

Much rain wears the marble.

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.