This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

Allow not nature more than nature needs.