We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.

I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

I would not wish any companion in the world but you.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!