A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!