I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me
Come, Lady, die to live.
Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.