Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.