Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?

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.

Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

A woman's fitness comes by fits.