Unsubstantial Death is amorous.
Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.