Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

To be direct and honest is not safe.

Too much to know is to know naught but fame.

Leave us to our free election.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.