But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, and excellent musician and her hair shall be of what colour it shall please God.

My wits begin to turn.

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Now I will believe that there are unicorns.

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.