'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.