When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will

One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.