Swift as shadow, short as any dream
What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Hate pollutes the mind.