The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts, and is desired.
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
The loyalty well held to fools does make our faith mere folly.
Patience is scottish, and impatience does become a dog that’s mad.
My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
I will praise any man that will praise me.
I have offended reputation, A most unnoble swerving.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.