No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.
Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, must have inventions to delight the taste, would now be glad of bread, and beg for it.
I will keep still with my philosopher.
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, And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen, When the false Trojan under sail was seen,— By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke.
May one be pardoned and retain th' offense?
Come, Lady, die to live.