After all the black man has been through in this world, he can still often reach levels of spirituality the most pampered white man cannot touch. Maybe what he's been through is...

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;<br /> Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

Bid Suspicion double-lock the door.

The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

Why, this is very midsummer madness

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

Foolery... does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.

How ever do we praise ourselves, our fancies are more giddy and uniform, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, than women's are.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate.

Present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

I can sing, and speak to him in many sorts of music.

If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.

My love admits no qualifying dross.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

How my achievements mock me!

Time is like a fashionable host<br /> That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,<br /> And with his arm outstretch'd, as he would fly,<br /> Grasps...

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back<br /> Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,<br /> A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:<br /> Those scraps are good...

A woman impudent and mannish grown is not more loathed than an effeminate man in time of action.

A stirring dwarf we do allowance give before a sleeping giant.