The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.