Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.

Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.