We must be gentle now we are gentlemen.

He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.

They have a plentiful lack of wit.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.