Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?