Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

I love thee; none but thee, and thou deservest it

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

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!