He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.

I am ill at these numbers.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.

Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart-see, they bark at me.