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

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

Being daily swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded.

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.