This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one.
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.