Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.
My wits begin to turn.
You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.
In thy foul throat thou liest.
We that are true lovers run into strange capers.