I am a true laborer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my harm.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance