I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.