How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!

For now they kill me with a living death.

If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

I'll privily away; I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes; Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and aves vehement, Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does not affect it.

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth.