Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.

He makes a July's day short as December.

God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.

We see which way the stream of time doth run.