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

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Don't trust the person who has broken faith once.

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.