I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

Experience teacheth that resolution is a sole help in need.

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

All the world's a stage.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.