She's good, being gone.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.