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

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground