I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.

Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.