To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.
He hath eaten me out of house and home.
How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.