“So. Lie there, my art.”

“What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,So stumblest on my counsel?*Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*”

“Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.”

“I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!”

“Now I wantSpirits to enforce, art to enchant;And my ending is despair,Unless I be relieved by prayer”

“I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it.”

“Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: DId you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing.”