A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

The pleasing punishment that women bear.

God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight.