A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
A man should be what he seems.
For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!
Love is a wonderful, terrible thing
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.