Doubt is a thief that often makes us fear to tread where we might have won.

I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!

Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth

Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!