Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

The best is yet to come.

There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.