O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Small things make base men proud.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

What, can the devil speak true?

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.

O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.