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.

Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own.

A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!

Love hath made thee a tame snake

I'll have no husband, if you be not he.

My love admits no qualifying dross

God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one.