Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
Take it in what sense thou wilt.