Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.
Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.
Every cloud engenders not a storm.