He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.

Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.