for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.