Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

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

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties