How long a time lies in one little word?

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought