The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one.
I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.