This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.