Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Then move not while my prayers’ effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
O, I am fortune’s fool.
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Meager were his looks. Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Her immortal part with angels lives.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
