Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.
She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?