Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.