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.

By that sin fell the angels.

He doth nothing but talk of his horses.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .