This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

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.

Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo

Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!

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