My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.

The past is prologue.

Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay more gazers than the basalisks; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Decieve more slily that Ulysses could, And like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down.

All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.

All surfeit is the father of much fast.