Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

Your praises will become your wages.

Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

I can give the loser leave to chide.

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.