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.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.

My soul is in the sky.

For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.

Temptation: the fiend at my elbow.