Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.
You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.