Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.

The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!