You shall more command with years than with your weapons.

I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.

This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.

The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Gently to hear, kindly to judge.

One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.