Fill all thy bones with aches.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?