Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises (The Tempest, Act III, Scene II)
Live with me and be my love (from Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music)
As an unperfect actor on the stage
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Why is my verse so barren of new pride
Who will believe my verse in time to come
That you were once unkind befriends me now
How oft, when thou, my music
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
When I consider everything that grows
Let those who are in favour with their stars
They that have power to hurt and will do none
Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Come again, sweet love doth now invite
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me
I never saw that you did painting need
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done
O never say that I was false of heart
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
How heavy do I journey on the way
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
The quality of mercy is not strained (Portia - The Merchant of Venice)
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
SInce I left you, mine eye is in my mind
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws
The Willow Song (Desdemona - Othello)
When my love swears that she is made of truth
When I do count the clock that tells the time
What potions have I drunk of siren tears
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Music to hear, why hears't thou music sadly
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck
My love is as a fever, longing still
