Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?

Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.