It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.

She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.