How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever,- One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

I love thee; none but thee, and thou deservest it

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.