Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!