I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.