So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.