O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.

To be, or not to be, that is the question.

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

Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

There's rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savor all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you.