Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Her name is Portia.
If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man – As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.