Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

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

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?

What light through yonder window breaks?