Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.
Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.
The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.