He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

Some are born great, others achieve greatness.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

And I will make it felony to drink small beer.