For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.

The chameleon Love can feed on the air