Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

How poor are they that have have not patients.

Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.