My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.