I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.

This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.