The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.

Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.

Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.