There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.

Time does not have the same appeal for every one

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.