What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

There is a world elsewhere.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?

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

We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.