I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!

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. . . .