I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.