Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
For grief is crowned with consolation.
His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
Past all shame, so past all truth.
Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.