Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
We must love men, ere to us they will seem worthy of our love.
I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
If people knew how much I hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.