Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

I have not slept one wink.

I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.

Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.