Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

The weakest goes to the wall.

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.

Your "if" is the only peacemaker; much virtue in "if.

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends