Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.

There's place and means for every man alive.

Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?

I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

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.

We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.