'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.

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

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

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

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me