When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
My love's more richer than my tongue.
To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.