I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure; let us be jocund

Heaven - the treasury of everlasting life.

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd