It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.

A flock of blessings light upon thy back

To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature.