Fill all thy bones with aches.
O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.
If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?