And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.

Grace and remembrance be to you both.

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.