Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.