Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.

Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.

Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.

Take you me for a sponge?

Why, thou owest god a death.