A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
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