I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.

Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

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

'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty