Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

To whom God will, there be the victory.