Thou Whoreson, Senseless Villain!

She's Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her.

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.

You Taught Me Language, And My Profit On't / Is, I Know How To Curse

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Ey'd, Such Seems Your Beauty Still.

I Wish You All The Joy That You Can Wish.