I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.