Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I am a true laborer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my harm.

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

They do not love that do not show their love.

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.

He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.