I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.

His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.

Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.