Time does not have the same appeal for every one

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.