They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.

So curses all Eve's daughters of what complexion soever.

For you and I are past our dancing days.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!