O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.
Appetite, a universal wolf.
There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.