Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Death is a fearful thing.
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.