Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
Thou unfit for any place but hell.
Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!
Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.
Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.