You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

When he is best, he is a little worse than a man; and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!