There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

Let the end try the man.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

For she had eyes and chose me.

I dote on his very absence.

Affection is a coal that must be cooled; else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire.