This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
There's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.
Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.