Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

He makes a July's day short as December.

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.