O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

Pray you now, forget and forgive.

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.