“the fire seven times tried this;seven times tried that judgement isthat did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss;such have but a shadows bliss,there be fool alive, i wissilverd o'er, and so was thisTake what wife you will to bedI will ever be your head.So be gone; you are sped.”

“What is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since everyone hath every one, one shade,And you, but one, can every shadow lend.Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs poorly imitated after you.On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,And you in Grecian tires are painted new.Speak of the spring and foison of the year;The one doth shadow of your beauty show,The other as your bounty doth appear,And you in every blessèd shape we know.In all external grace you have some part,But you like none, none you, for constant heart.”

“Why I, in this weak piping time of piece,Have no delight to pass away the time,Unless to see my shadow in the sunAnd descant on my own deformity”

“And it is very much lamented,...That you have no such mirrors as will turnYour hidden worthiness into your eyeThat you might see your shadow.”

“I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.”

“All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.”

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.”