Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
Men have marble, women waxen, minds.
Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.
I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.