I am a feather for each wind that blows
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.
New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!