O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

He was ever precise in promise-keeping.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Dream in light years, challenge miles, walk step by step

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.