Hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

Thou lump of foul deformity!

Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

What is the city but the people?

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?