Ay me! sad hours seem long.

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Report me and my cause aright.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.