She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.