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.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.