Though she be but little, she is fierce!

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.