For all true love is grounded on esteem.

And as they pass, turn back and laugh at me.

Men's fame is like their hair, which grows after they are dead, and with just as little use to them.

What the devil does the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?

Make my breast transparent as pure crystal, that the world, jealous of me, may see the foulest thought my heart does hold.

Good wits will jump.