It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.
Love is the greatest of dreams, yet the worst of nightmares.
A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
Against love's fire fear`s frost hath dissolution
O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.