I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

I can give the loser leave to chide.

Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.