What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

Oh, thou did'st then ne'er love so heartily. If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run inot, Thou has not loved. Of if thou has't not sat as I do now, Wearying they hearer in thy mistress's praise, Thou has not loved. Of if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou has not loved. (Silvius)

Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.

We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.