Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.
I have not slept one wink.
The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.