I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.

Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*