I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

A politician... one that would circumvent God.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.

Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.