Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.