I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.

Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his liveless end.

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

A good heart 'is worth gold.