And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

The golden age is before us, not behind us.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.