Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

When faced with a sea of troubles, take action, and in so doing end it.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.