Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

This thought is as a death.