A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.
The labor we delight in physics [cures] pain.
By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.