So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.

Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

God grant us patience!

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.