Friends are ourselves.
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.
So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.