More of your conversation would infect my brain.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.