What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!
I have not slept one wink.
The man that hath no music in himself
Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.