A woman's fitness comes by fits.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

While we lie tumbling in the hay.