With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

For you and I are past our dancing days.

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

And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.