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

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Sin will pluck on sin.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.

Men should be what they seem.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.