What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not.
Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.