Season Your Admiration For A While.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

Wise Men Ne'er Sit And Wail Their Woes, But Presently Prevent The Ways To Wail.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave, I Should In Thought Control Your Times Of Pleasure, Or At Your Hand Th' Account Of Hours To Crave, Being Your Vassal Bound To Stay Your Leisure.