O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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
... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.
Boldness be my friend.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.