Wait for the season when to cast good counsels upon subsiding passion.

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

I must be cruel, only to be kind.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.