Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.