She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before he transgressed.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.