Love is merely a madness.

O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

Be to yourself as you would to your friend.