Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.
Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them
Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.