Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.
The soul of this man is his clothes.
To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.