Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

And she's fair I love.

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.