Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!

Every great drama has its foreshadow.

Death is a fearful thing.

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.