There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
My love is as a fever, longing still.
Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
The patient must minister to himself
O, full of scorpions is my mind!