Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry

The insolence of office.

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.