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. . . .
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
Men should be what they seem.
Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?
Affection is a coal that must be cooled; else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire.