For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.

Some men never seem to grow old. Always active in thought, always ready to adopt new ideas, they are never chargeable with foggyism. Satisfied, yet ever dissatisfied, settled, yet ever unsettled, they always enjoy the best of what is, are the first to find the best of what will be.

A pair of star-crossed lovers.

Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.

How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.

Now is the winter of our discontent.