But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.