Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.

Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.