She is a woman, therefore to be won.

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

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.

The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!

Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.