Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

How every fool can play upon the word!

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.