He doth nothing but talk of his horses.

Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.

It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance

Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.