Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters: here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold.

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.

He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

All dark and comfortless.

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.