A Pair Of Star-crossed Lovers.

We Wound Our Modesty And Make Foul The Clearness Of Our Deservings, When Of Ourselves We Publish Them.

By Heaven, My Soul Is Purg'd From Grudging Hate; And With My Hand I Seal My True Heart's Love

When You Do Dance, I Wish You A Wave O' The Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing But That.

Rumor Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures.

This Fellow Pecks Up Wit, As Pigeons Peas; And Utters It Again When God Doth Please: He Is Wit's Pedler; And Retails His Wares.