a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.
O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.