Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

Good words are better than bad strokes.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!