The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done.
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus' doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, ... By all the vows that ever men have broke (In number more than ever women spoke).
O gentle lady, do not put me to't, For I am nothing if not critical.
That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity.
O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing; make it less, For fear I surfeit.
Thou wilt be like a lover presently And tire the hearer with a book of words.
This thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong.
O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords In our own proper entrails.
Music, ho, music such as charmeth sleep!