My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.

Assure thee, if I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it to the last article." --Othello, Act III, Scene iii

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?

Would I were in an alehouse in London.

Are you up to your destiny?