My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
Why should honor outlive honestly? Orthello
The man that hath no music in himself
She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.