Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

The Eyes are the window to your soul

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.

Take pains. Be perfect.