I'll privily away; I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes; Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and aves vehement, Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does not affect it.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

Sometimes, less is more.

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?