Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.

My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.