Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

Making night hideous.

Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure; let us be jocund

Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.