Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.