Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

Till all grace be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

A king of infinite space

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more: Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.