Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?

In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.