O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”

“More matter with less art.”

“Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fres…”

“Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had …”