A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.

O wretched state! o bosom black as death!

Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

It's easy for someone to joke about scars if they've never been cut.