Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor.

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.