Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.