Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.

Turn hell-hound, turn.

My brain I'll prove the female to my soul; my soul the father: and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world.

For thy sweet love remembr'd such wealth bringsThat then, I scorn to change my state with kings.

Great men may jest with saints 'tis wit in them But in the less foul profanation.