You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.

What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?

O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

Love will not be spurred to what it loathes