Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

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

All things are ready, if our mind be so.

Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.