Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.

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.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Sweets to the sweet.

But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.

So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.