For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.

There's an old saying that applies to me: you can't lose a game if you don't play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)

This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!