Things are often spoke and seldom meant.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.