We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

Things may serve long, but not serve ever.

Say as you think and speak it from your souls.

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

The cunning livery of hell.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.