So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
What is more miserable than discontent?
This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip