What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
Patch grief with proverbs.
Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.
O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.