This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.
Things are often spoke and seldom meant.
Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.