In A False Quarrel There

He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Enriches Him And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

I Will Praise Any Man That Will Praise Me.

It Is The Very Error Of The Moon; She Comes More Nearer Earth Than She Was Wont, And Makes Men Mad.

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of Jealousy