For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Speak low, if you speak love.

Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

The sense of death is most in apprehension.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.