But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.

...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.

And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd