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To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy.

Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou are crowned, not that I am dead.

Et tu, Brute!

I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

The woosel cock so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill-- . . . . The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay.

The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.

He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

I will go wash; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no.

I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus, Which is that god in office, guiding men?

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite, Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for: redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will, Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindess shall his death draw out To ling'ring sufferance.

I have marked A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes, And in her eye there hath appeared a fire To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth.

Yet will she blush, here be it said, To bear her secrets so bewrayed.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both faces blazed. She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin's lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.

Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To mask their brows and hide their infamy; But I alone, alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with show'rs of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulleth edge of husbandry.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

There is gold for you. Sell me your good report.