My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.
Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.