Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.