Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.