Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

More matter with less art.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.