Women's weapons, water-drops.

Good wine needs no bush.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.

Blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am