RUMOUR: "Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

All is well ended, if the suit be won.

So. Lie there, my art.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

CLEOPATRA: If it be love indeed, tell me how much. ANTONY: There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned. CLEOPATRA: I'll set a bourne how far to be belov'd. ANTONY: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.