Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.
My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
He makes a July's day short as December.
Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy.