For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
O, she misused me past the endurance of a block.
Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.
A man I am cross'd with adversity.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'