Speak low if you speak love
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I would not wish any companion in the world but you
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She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them
O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
* * * * *
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
* * * * *
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
If music be the food of love, play on
* * * * *
There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned
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That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
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Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
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Is she not passing fair?
* * * * *
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
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Come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short minute gives me in her sight
* * * * *
Love goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps
* * * * *
The stroke of death is as a lovers pinch, Which hurts and is desired
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She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won
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Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns.
* * * * *
Thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lute.
* * * * *
If music be the food of love, play on.
* * * * *
Journey's end in lovers meeting.
Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
* * * * *
Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love
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