Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.

So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

And I will make it felony to drink small beer.