Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.