She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good.