Avaunt, You Cullions!

Spirits Are Not Finely Touched But To Fine Issues, Nor Nature Never Lends The Smallest Scruple Of Her Excellence But Like A Thrifty Goddess She Determines Herself The Glory Of A Creditor,both Thanks And Use.

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Fair Words.

What Is Aught But As 'tis Valued?

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

If There Were Reason For These Miseries, Then Into Limits Could I Bind My Woes. If The Winds Rages, Doth Not The Sea Wax Mad, Threat'ning The Welkin With Its Big-swoll'n Face? And Wilt Though Have A Reason For This Coil? I Am The Sea. Hark How Her Sighs Doth Blow. She Is The Weeping Welkin, I The Earth.