Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.