I am wrapped in dismal thinking.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.