All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled from this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it, for I love you so, that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, if thinking on me then should make you woe. O! if, I say, you look upon this verse when I perhaps compounded am with clay, do not so much as my poor name rehearse; but let your love even with my life decay; lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after I am gone.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?