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

You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!

You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.

Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.