He hath eaten me out of house and home.
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.