As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

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

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.