Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.
There's many a man hath more hair than wit.
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.