I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.

In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.