I Am Bewitched With The Rogue's Company.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

Beshrew That Heart That Makes My Heart To Groan For That Deep Wound It Gives My Friend And Me; Is't Not Enough To Torture Me Alone, But Slave To Slavery My Sweet'st Friend Must Be?

Like A Man Made After Supper Of A Cheese-paring: When A' Was Naked, He Was, For All The World, Like A Forked Radish, With A Head Fantastically Carved Upon It With A Knife.

For My Part, If A Lie May Do Thee Grace, I'll Gild It With The Happiest Terms I Have.