Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.