In Black Ink My Love May Still

O, Swear Not By The Moon, The Fickle Moon, The Inconstant Moon, That Monthly Changes In Her Circle Orb, Lest That Thy Love Prove Likewise Variable

I Know No Ways To Mince It In Love, But Directly To Say - I Love You

When He Is Best, He Is A Little Worse Than A Man; And When He Is Worst, He Is Little Better Than A Beast.

I Had Rather Be A Dog, And Bay The Moon, Than Such A Roman.

It Is Lost At Dice, What Ancient Honor Won.