Your Praises Will Become Your Wages.

I Would There Were No Age Between Sixteen And Three-and-twenty, Or That Youth Would Sleep Out The Rest; For There Is Nothing In The Between But Getting Wenches With Child, Wronging The Ancientry, Stealing, Fighting

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

I’ll Look To Like, If Looking Liking Move; But No More Deep Will I Endart Mine Eye Than Your Consent Gives Strength To Make It Fly.

Base Men Being In Love Have Then A Nobility In Their Natures More Than Is Native To Them.

Report Me And My Cause Aright.