All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.

The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.