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

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

Nothing comes from doing nothing.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?