For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

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

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!