Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

Things are often spoke and seldom meant.

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

O hell! to choose love with another's eye.