Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?