The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.