Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service