O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
'Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs, and we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full They belch us.
Berowne they call him, but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal.
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
O wise and upright judge! How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
He that dies pays all debts.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here.
I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.