Now the melancholy of God protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.

He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.

Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love.

Patch up thine old body for heaven.

O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.

Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

For now they kill me with a living death.