For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.

It's easy for someone to joke about scars if they've never been cut.

Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.