There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Give me my sin again.

Gold--what can it not do, and undo?

You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.

I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath; Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.