So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, / Will sate itself in a celestial bed / And prey on garbage.

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive / Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, / And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, / To prick and sting her.

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; / And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, / With windlasses, and with assays of bias, / By indirections find directions out.

This is the very ecstasy of love, / Whose violent property fordoes itself, / And leads the will to desperate undertakings, / As oft as any passion under heaven / That does afflict our natures.

O what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

O ’tis too true! / How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! / The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, / Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it / Than is my deed to my most painted word.

Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! / The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, / Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, / The glass of fashion and the mould of form, / Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, / The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, / The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, / The insolence of office, and the spurns / That patient merit of the unworthy takes, / When he himself might his quietus make / With a bare bodkin?