Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.

The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary

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

Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.