Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? And the creature run from the cur. There thou mightst behold the great image of authority-a dog's obeyed in office.

O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.