We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!

Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.