To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!