“Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient foolArt thou, to break into this woman's mood,Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!”

“Art thou afeardTo be the same in thine own act and valourAs thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have thatWhich thou esteem'st the ornament of life,And live a coward in thine own esteem,Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'Like the poor cat i' the adage?”

“O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou beWhen time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feetWhere thou and I henceforth may never meet.”

“The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,And say what thou seest yond.”

“This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear”

“Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,”