For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

To you your father should be as a god.

There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd

When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love