As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.

If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.

Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.

Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.