Others

So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.

Sell when you can, you are not for all markets.

From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind.

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

These trees shall be my books.

The “why” is plain as way to parish church.

If ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it.

Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Heavenly Rosalind!

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless.

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

Patch griefs with proverbs.

O! what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal.

The naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births.

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.

Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck.

The singing masons building roofs of gold.

Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention!

O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention!

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest.