I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.

The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

Who can be patient in extremes?

And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Hate pollutes the mind.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.