Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story

We were not born to sue, but to command.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.