So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

This is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security.

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

With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

Barnes are blessings.

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

Men have marble, women waxen, minds.