We cannot all be masters.

I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.

Heaven give you many, many merry days.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.