The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
The chameleon Love can feed on the air
O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!
To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.