O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

A true repentance shuns the evil itself, more than the external suffering or the shame.