My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.

Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Iago.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here;.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

I say there is no darkness but ignorance.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong Hark! now I hear them, – Ding-dong, bell.

“Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”

“Oh, I am fortune’s fool!”

“Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.”