Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.

Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?

RUMOUR: "Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.

So. Lie there, my art.