Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Nothing can seem foul to those who win.

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise

We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror.

Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.

Art made tongue-tied by authority.