If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd
What light through yonder window breaks?
Be to yourself as you would to your friend.
There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.