Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.

Leave us to our free election.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.

You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.