It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

So curses all Eve's daughters of what complexion soever.

A flock of blessings light upon thy back

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.

Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!