If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse

What is aught but as 'tis valued?

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.

I say, without characters, fame lives long.