I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Let every man be master of his time.

Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!