We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.

Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.

And she's fair I love.

Adversity makes strange bedfellows.