Soft pity enters an iron gate.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.