Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.
The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.
Who can be patient in extremes?
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.