She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.