When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.

Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.