I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out

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. . .

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste.