This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.

A woman's thought runs before her actions.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !