Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't.

Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.