��������His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
��������In our heart's table,--heart too capable
��������Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
��������But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
��������Must sactify his relics. Who comes here?
��������One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;
��������And yet I know him a notorious liar,
��������Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
��������Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him
��������That they take place when the virtue's steely bones
��������Look bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
��������Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
The Taming of the Shrew
��������Act 4, Scene 3
Katherine: The more my wrong, the more his spite appears:
��������What, did he marry me to famish me?
��������Beggars, that come onto my father's door,
��������Upon entreaty have a present alms;
��������If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:
��������But I,--who never knew how to entreat,
��������Nor never needed that I should entreat,--
��������Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
��������With oaths kept waking and with brawling fed:
��������And that which spites me more than all these wants,
��������He does it under the name of perfect love;
��������As who would say, if I should sleep or eat,
��������'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.

King John
Act 3, Scene 4.
(Pandulph: Lady, you are utter madness, and not sorrow.)
Constance: Thou art not holy to belie me so;
��������I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
��������My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
��������Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost;
��������I am not mad;--I would to heaven I were!
��������For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
��������O, if I could, what grief should I forget!--
��������Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
��������And thou shalt be can�niz'd, cardinal;
��������For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
��������My reasonable part produces reason
��������How I may be deliver's of these woes,
��������And teaches me to kill myself:
��������If I were mad I should forget my son,
��������Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:
��������I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
��������The different plague of each calamity.
Antony and Cleopatra
�������Act 5, Scene 2.
Cleopatra: Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
�������Immortal longings in me: no more
�������The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:--
�������Yare, yare, good Iras; quick.--Methinks I hear
�������Antony call; I see him rouse himself
�������To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
�������the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
�������To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come:
�������Now to that name my courage prove my title!
�������I am fire and air; my other elements
�������I give to baser life.--So,--have you done?
�������Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
�������Farewell, kind Charmian;--Iras, long farewell.
�������nbsp;���([Cleo. kisses Char. & Iras. Iras falls and dies.])
�������Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
�������If thou and nature can so gently part,
�������The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
�������Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still?
�������If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
�������It is not worth leave-taking.

King Lear
�������Act 4, Scene 7.
Cordelia: O my dear father! Restoration hang
�������Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
�������Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
�������Have in thy reverence made!
�������(Kent: Kind and dear princess!)
�������Had you not been their father, there white flakes
�������Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face
�������To be oppos'd against the warring winds?
�������To stand against the deep dread bolted thunder?
�������In the most terrible and nimble stroke
�������Of quick, cross lightning? to watch,--poor perdu!--
�������With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
�������Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
�������Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
�������To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,
�������In short and musty straw? Alack, Alack!
�������'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
�������Had not concluded all.--He wakes; speak to him.

Macbeth
�������Act 1, Scene 5.
Lady Macbeth: The raven himself is hoarse
�������That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
�������Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
�������That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
�������And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
�������Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
�������Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
�������That no compunctious visitings of nature
�������Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
�������The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
�������And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
�������Wherever in your sightless substances
�������You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
�������And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
�������That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
�������Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
�������To cry,
Hold, Hold!
�������Act I, Scene VII
Lady Macbeth: Was the hope drunk
�������Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?
�������And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
�������At what it did so freely? From this time
�������Such I account thy love. Art thou afeared to be the same as thine own act and valour
�������As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
�������Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
�������And live a coward in thine own esteem;
�������Letting
I dare not wait upon
I would,
�������Like the poor cat i' the adage?
�������(Macbeth: Pr'ythee, pease" I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.)
�������What beast was't, then,
�������That made you break this enterprise to me?
�������When you durst do it, then you were a man;
�������And, to be more than what you were, you would
�������Be so more more the man. Nor time nor place
�������Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
�������They have made
themselves, and that their fitness now
�������Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
�������How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
�������I would, while it was smiling in my face,
�������Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
�������And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
�������Have done to this.