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

Let them obey that knows not how to rule.

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

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.

The fear's as bad as falling.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.