We have seen better days.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

Do not spread the compost on the weeds.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.