But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.