All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

Men should be what they seem.

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!

Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.