Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
An overflow of good converts to bad.
Every good servant does not all commands.
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?