Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak.

God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Beauty lives with kindness.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.