Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.

And simple truth miscalled simplicity

Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.

Hang those that talk of fear.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy