Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?