Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.

...lest too light winning make the prize light.

Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.

There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.