There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire; that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.