I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

The time is out of joint.

Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.