How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

That is not the best sermon which makes the hearers go away talking to one another and praising the speaker, but which makes them go away thoughtful and serious, and hastening to be alone.

What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.