Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.
A light wife doth make a heavy husband.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
Two women placed together makes cold weather.
With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.