The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.

Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!

Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.

Is she kind as she is fair?

O, full of scorpions is my mind!