When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.
A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
I fill up a place, which may be better... when I have made it empty.
He is well paid that is well satisfied.