Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?