The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts, and is desired.
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.