In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.
Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn
For what I will, I will, and there an end.
What the great ones do, the less will prattle of