Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Have more than you show, Speak less than you know.

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.