These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

I...Kisss the tender inward of thy hand.

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

I do desire we may be better strangers.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.