Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.
If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour!
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 preserving sweet.
But love is blind and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.
There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.