This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
And I will make it felony to drink small beer.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
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.
Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.