I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

The readiness is all.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

Can one desire too much of a good thing?