She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.