Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out

O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.