I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

Wish chastely, and love dearly.

He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.