Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.

Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

My love's more richer than my tongue.

It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.