Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house.

Can one desire too much of a good thing?

'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?