Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.

Summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

Glory is like a circle in the water

And makes me poor indeed.