If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.

Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.

From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.