My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be supprest. Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low. Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly do prat…

Must is not a word to be used to princes! Little man, little man, if your late father were here he would never dare utter such a word.

Brass shines as fair to the ignorant as gold to the goldsmiths.

Why would I cry over a boy? I would never waste my tears on a boy. Why waste your tears on someone who makes you cry?

Thou art to me a delicious torment.

Every fool knoweth that hatreds are the cinders of affection.