Twere To Consider Too Curiously, To Consider

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.

She Lov'd Me For The Dangers I Had Pass'd, And I Lov'd Her That She Did Pity Them

You Will Never Age For Me, Nor Fade, Nor Die.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.