Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.