But men are men; the best sometimes forget.

Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service

Be to yourself as you would to your friend.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.