O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!