Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
He doth nothing but talk of his horses.
Making night hideous.
You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse
It is not night when I do see your face.
What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?