Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head.

The eagle suffers little birds to sing.

Thy friendship makes us fresh.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

She is a woman, therefore to be won.