So fair and foul a day i had not seen.

A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing.

it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.