O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

For like the hectic in my blood he rages, / And thou must cure me.

This is th'imposthume of much wealth and peace, / That inward breaks, and shows no cause without / Why the man dies.

Sure he that made us with such large discourse, / Looking before and after, gave us not / That capability and godlike reason / To fust in us unus'd.

O rose of May! / Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! / O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits / Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them.

The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

the great love the general gender bear him, / Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, / Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, / Convert his gyves to graces;

The houses he makes last till doomsday.

the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—