Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.

... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.

Lend less than you owe.

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Foul whisperings are abroad