These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.

She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!

I can give the loser leave to chide.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am