So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

They have a plentiful lack of wit.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.