If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.