Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
I was a coward on instinct.
Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.
A man I am cross'd with adversity.
What, can the devil speak true?
T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.