Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
Nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out
I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.