I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

If there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'
The jaws of darkness do devour it up;
So quick bright things come to confusion.

We are born to die.

Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.