Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

The insolence of office.

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.