It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met!

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.

Journeys end in lovers meeting.