These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay more gazers than the basalisks; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Decieve more slily that Ulysses could, And like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down.

Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.