You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
If fortune torments me, hope contents me.