for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

I hope to see London once ere I die.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.