Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.

Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.

The fear's as bad as falling.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.