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

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!

Well, honor is the subject of my story.

we are the lords of all eternity