His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities.
Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.