The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.