If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.

I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.