Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.
The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
Passion makes the will lord of the reason.
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.