Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.