How much an ill word may empoison liking!

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.

When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.