If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.