They have a plentiful lack of wit.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love

Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.