A dream itself is but a shadow.
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.