What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say
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.
Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.