When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

So curses all Eve's daughters of what complexion soever.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh