Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?
Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?