When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!