In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.

The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby

Music do I hear?Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is,When time is broke and no proportion kept!So is it in the music of men's lives.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music

All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. Being purged a fire sparkling in lovers eyes, being vexed a sea nourished with lovers tears, What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a perserving sweet.