Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity
Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
They that touch pitch will be defiled.
Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.