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

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but ay, And that bare vowel ay shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I,if there be such an ay, Or those eyes shut,that make thee answer ay: If he be slain say ay,or if not,no: Brief sounds,determine of my weal or woe.