The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.

And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?