For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
This is the very ecstasy of love.
There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.
How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.
Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.