O, call back yesterday, bid time return

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules, but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct.

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

The Eyes are the window to your soul

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.