O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.

Use them after your own honour and dignity; the less they deserve, the more merit in your bounty. - Hamlet to Polonius.

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

It is the green eyed monster which doth mock.

Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well.