Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.

Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.

Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

He that is thy friend indeed, he will help you in your need.