She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.