We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.