There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.
Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.
What is past is prologue.
That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.