Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

And a man's life's no more than to say "One."

The fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fallen out with her husband.