When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart."-Helena

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.