He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.

O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!