Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

A fusty nut with no kernel.

She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.

And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!

Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.