faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where’s my man? Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that she were, O that I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits