Ay me! sad hours seem long.

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

Omittance is no quittance.

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

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.