And a man's life's no more than to say "One."
I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.
His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.