This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.

He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

Speak me fair in death.

Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.