O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.

I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.

The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.