You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile

To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

Let's meet as little as we can

So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!