Cry Havoc And Let Slip The Dogs

Ay; Beauty's Princely Majesty Is Such, Confounds The Tongue And Makes The Senses Rough.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

I Almost Die For Food, And Let Me Have It!

Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered!

There Is Some Soul Of Goodness In Things Evil, Would Men Observingly Distill It Out.