If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.

The proverb is something musty.

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.