They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.