Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground.
Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.
They have a plentiful lack of wit.
I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.
Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.