The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
I must be cruel, only to be kind.
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.