From this day forward until the end of the world...we in it shall be remembered...we band of brothers.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it; the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.