Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

If you be King, why should not I succeed?

Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.