Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away,
From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurour and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once
That make ingrateful man!

What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.