Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.

I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.

The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you.

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

O hell! to choose love with another's eye.