In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.
The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.