The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence

O powerful love, that in some respects makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.