I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.