Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

I had as lief have been myself alone.

O powerful love, that in some respects makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Society is no comfort, to one not sociable.

My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.