Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.

I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

If you be King, why should not I succeed?

Put money in thy purse.