Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Eternity was in our lips and eyes.
Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.
Is she not passing fair?
The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.