My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
Nothing can come of nothing.
Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
Hasty marriage seldom proveth well.
See where she comes apparelled like the spring.