Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.
Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love.
Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.
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?
Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.