I May Command Where I Adore.

Thou Art A Very Ragged Wart.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.