Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.

Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.