Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear

thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.

Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.