They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

Come, Lady, die to live.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.