Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.

If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.

My soul is in the sky.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.