O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?

Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.