Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.

Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.