Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.

What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?

They love least that let men know their loves.