This is the very ecstasy of love.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own Discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action.

Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.