These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

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.

Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.

Tis the mind that makes the body rich.

What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.

Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?