Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

Ten Kisses Short As One, One Long As Twenty.

Talkers Are No Good Doers.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

Have I Caught Thee, My Heavenly Jewel? Why, Now Let Me Die, For I Have Lived Long Enough.