A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As they say, when the age is in, the wit is out.
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief