But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together.