Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

That man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

He is white-livered and red-faced.

Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.

Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—