The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

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.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

O powerful love, that in some respects makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast.

Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.

Beauty within itself should not be wasted.