What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.