There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

What light through yonder window breaks?

one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.

O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!