She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared
I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more: Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.
I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.