The Poorest Service Is Repaid

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty

Hear Me Profess Sincerely: Had I A Dozen Sons, Each In My Love Alike, And None Less Dear Than Thine And My Good Marcius, I Had Rather Have Eleven Die Nobly For Their Country Than One Voluptuously Surfeit Out Of Action.