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

Swift as shadow, short as any dream

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.

Too much to know is to know naught but fame.

Wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.