Dreams are the children of idled minds.

I can give the loser leave to chide.

The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.

My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.