And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.

Conscience doth make cowards of us all.

Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

He was not so much brain as earwax

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.