Soft pity enters an iron gate.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.

Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.

A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.