How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

If you be King, why should not I succeed?

The weakest goes to the wall.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?