Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.

A very scurvy fellow.

it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.