Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever,- One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.

Oh, I am fortune's fool!

Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.