Hang him, swaggering rascal!

And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!

One man in his time plays many parts.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.