There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't

Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.

It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.

I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.