Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.

Make passionate my sense of hearing.

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.