In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Make passionate my sense of hearing.

If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.