I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Man and wife, being two, are one in love.

Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.