Beshrew The Heart That Makes My Heart

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

My Heart Is Ever At Your Service.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

If It Be True That Good Wine Needs No Bush, 'tis True That A Good Play Needs No Epilogue.