Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.