There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness!
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.